


Stopping to Smell the Roses

by flecksofpoppy



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, First Kiss, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-12 23:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3359732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fluffy Valentine's Day JM fic with a twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stopping to Smell the Roses

**Author's Note:**

> My first instinct was to write some sappy porn for a little JM Valentine's Day goodness, but then... I decided to do something completely different. Hope you like it!

Jean is staring at the ground where he’s standing across from Marco under the bus stop shelter, unspeaking as he idly kicks at imaginary dirt.

Marco groans internally. He knew this was a bad idea from the start, and he still can’t recall why he agreed to it. Something to do with Jean bordering on begging.

“Um,” he says, shifting his weight to try and restart the conversation, “the bus takes really long.” He gives an awkward smile and tilts his head, trying to get Jean to look at him.

Marco knows that Jean isn’t intending to hurt his feelings or be spiteful; he’s just so far withdrawn into himself that he can barely even meet Marco’s eyes.

“I guess, uh...” Marco trails off, trying not to look at Jean’s face for too long, “you know, it’s Valentine’s Day, so a lot of people are probably out.”

He fights the urge to sigh and gives up, pushing his hands into his own pockets and turning away to give Jean some space. Marco’s not sure how much more space he can give Jean save just leaving him standing alone—something that Marco would never do, but he’s now starting to wonder if that’s what Jean actually _wants._

“What Jean wants”—the thing that started this whole mess in the first place.

Marco met Jean by coincidence in a college class their senior year, and for whatever reason no one around them could seem to figure out, they became friends.

Right around the time Jean broke up with his long-term girlfriend, they became close friends. 

(Movie nights, drunk impromptu sing-alongs, a few late nights out, and even actual adult activities like cooking. Basically, anything to get Jean’s mind off the disintegration of his relationship. Eventually, it worked, right after Jean _finally_ let himself break down about it.)

Right around the time Marco’s family moved far away, they became best friends. 

(Every night was movie night, less late nights out and more late nights in, actual enthusiastic cooking. Eventually, Marco felt less alone, especially after he put Jean down as his emergency contact. He felt like he had someone he could really depend on.)

And then, something changed.

Marco’s still not sure when it was, or how it happened, or even why, but he realized that he was falling in love with Jean. It was early enough in the game that he had been able to make peace with it, let go of the emotion because he knew it was never going to happen, nor should it happen.

Marco is relatively sure if Jean knew, he wouldn’t freak out. It’d come out after college that they’re both queer, although Jean tends to skew toward ladies and Marco tends to skew toward... 

Well, the problem is that Marco skews toward nothing, because Marco also happens to be asexual—a word that he hadn’t ever thought to apply to himself until stumbling across it in an article he’d been reading. He’d always just said “celibate.” It made things easier if his sex life ever came up—which, inevitably, it did sometimes—but no one seemed to question it. 

Marco figured he got the short end of the stick: ace and in love with his not-ace, probably-mostly-straight best friend. Really not the best scenario to be in, but it was manageable once upon a time. 

He thought he had it all figured out, until two days ago, Jean Kirschstein broke down and confessed to having some serious feelings for Marco, and then in typical Jean fashion, let the l-word slip.

The thought almost makes Marco wants to cry for multiple reasons—it’s so classically Jean to be unable to contain his thoughts properly, and also, because Marco had then summarily rejected him.

How do you explain to someone you love them, but you don’t want to have sex with them? Marco’s never actually tried.

Happy fucking Valentine’s Day.

“Jean?” Marco says haltingly, fixing his gaze on Jean’s face, willing him to look up. He’s tired of not even having the benefit of eye contact.

Jean immediately looks up, as if suddenly realizing what miserable company he’s being, and he sighs wearily. “Sorry,” he remarks in a hushed voice. “I didn’t mean... to zone out.”

Marco can tell he’s still mortified, even two days after the fact. 

“We didn’t have to keep our plans this year,” Marco says gently, trying not to bite his lip and pushing the hurt down that quickly welling up in him.

Every year since Jean and his girlfriend broke up, he and Marco go out on Valentine’s Day together and just walk around the city streets, maybe get a drink—just to get out and move and not feel trapped inside.

Marco’s never really been big on the day—mostly indifferent to it—but for whatever reason, Jean seems to take it relatively seriously. 

Jean’s gaze snaps up, and he outright scowls at Marco, eyes blazing. He straightens up as he bites out, “It’s a fucking tradition. You think I’d ruin a _tradition_ just because—” He clamps his mouth shut, his eyes widening; then, he abruptly turns away. “I didn’t want to cancel,” he finally says quietly, his voice carefully controlled again. “Sorry for being a downer. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty.” He sighs, shrugging minutely as he takes a deep breath.

Slowly, he turns back around to face Marco, but that nervous misery he’s trying so hard to push to the side is still there. Nevertheless, he keeps a neutral expression and meets Marco’s eyes calmly.

There’s a short silence, and now it’s Marco’s turn to look at the ground awkwardly, fidgeting a belt loop on his jeans nervously.

“Can we just get a beer or something?” Jean finally says, his voice weary but sincere. “And just forget all this bullshit?”

Marco looks up in surprise, and then he smiles, hoping desperately that it doesn’t come across as wistful, even though that’s how he feels. The sooner they can move away from this, the better.

“Want to find a bar with the least hearts?” he deadpans, raising an eyebrow and letting a more genuine smile shine through. Without thinking, he takes a few steps forward and pats Jean on the shoulder; as his hand makes contact, though, he has enough self-awareness to keep it quick and fraternal. Nevertheless, Jean stiffens and takes a step back.

“Yeah,” he agrees quickly, turning sharply as the bus squeaks to a stop in front of them finally, “sounds good.”

They ride the bus in silence again, but it’s not as awkward as the first time.

Marco is very aware of Jean’s leg touching his where they’re sitting together. Just another thing to confuse the shit out of someone like Jean—no to sex, yes to touching; no to orgasms, yes to kissing.

The trip is surprisingly tolerable, though, and they fall into the type of silence that they’ve established over the past few years: comfortable, effortless, and most of all, safe.

“Here,” Jean says abruptly, “let’s get off here. There’s a decent bar around the corner.”

Marco makes a surprised squeak as Jean leans across him to push the “request stop” button next to the window, but Jean duly ignores the sound.

From this close, Marco can smell him—body heat, well-worn t-shirt, faint aftershave—and he smells amazing. He smells like home.

“Marco?” Jean asks, looking down at Marco from where’s now standing with a baffled expression. “Are you okay, man?” he asks.

“Oh,” Marco stammers, “yeah, sorry.” He stands up abruptly, and they exit single file with the other departing passengers.

The street is surprisingly quiet, and Jean makes a disgruntled sound as a gust of mercilessly frigid wind hits them. Thankfully, the path to their destination cuts through a small park half a block in size, so there’s at least some buffer from the wind.

As they walk, Jean immediately starts to complain; Marco fights off the smile. He’s so predictable in some ways.

“You know what’s _not_ romantic?” he gripes, turning to frown at Marco as he readjusts the worn neon green scarf he’s wearing. “Fucking freezing to death. Why did they put this stupid holiday in the dead middle of winter?”

It’s the scarf Marco’s sister made for him the first year he and Marco became friends. She strongly disliked Jean since she thought he was obnoxious, and so she made him the ugliest thing she could when he came home with Marco one holiday. She only started to like him when he wore it every time they saw each other to show her up, and now, he wears it more out of affection.

Marco smiles a little and shrugs. “Love hurts?”

Jean groans and covers his face in embarrassment. “You are so cheesy.”

Marco starts to laugh a little, feeling slightly unburdened; but there’s also something bittersweet, because the words actually apply. Jean just doesn’t know how much.

There’s been so many times Marco’s considered just coming clean and trying to tell the truth, but it’s hard to do when you can’t even explain the most basic of concepts. He has no idea how Jean would react.

Suddenly, Marco is startled out of his thoughts as he feels Jean tap his jacket lightly. 

“Don’t you have gloves?”

Marco makes a face and shoves his hands into his jacket pockets. “I forgot them.”

Jean raises an eyebrow, and then immediately moves to reach into his own pockets. Magically, a pair of leather gloves appear and are pushed into Marco’s hands, and Marco’s eyes widen.

“You didn’t have to... um...”

Jean just stares at him blankly, and then a look of horror crashes over his face. “No,” he says, holding his hands up and shaking his head, “I didn’t mean it like... uh...”

“Oh,” Marco replies awkwardly, taking a few steps back, sliding the gloves onto his hands solely to escape that conversation. “No, it’s cool—that’s uh, nice of you.”

Jean nods, but Marco can see the expression cracking slightly.

“I’m sorry if I fucked up,” he says abruptly, turning away to shove his hands into his pockets again and sit down on one of the park benches, curling into himself slightly. 

He looks so un-Jean-like, it’s painful to watch. “You didn’t fuck up,” Marco says softly, moving to sit down next to Jean on the bench, albeit a few feet away. “It’s...”

“I shouldn’t have told you,” Jean whispers, staring between his knees at the ground, turned slightly away from Marco. “It wasn’t fair of me.”

“Why?” Marco asks, not quite understanding what Jean means.

“I don’t know,” Jean replies with a tense shrug. “Unfair of me to ruin our friendship, to mess things up?” Suddenly, he straightens and turns sharply to stare at Marco. “To be the fuck-up of a person I always am?”

As Marco opens his mouth to protest, Jean gives a self-deprecating snort and rolls his eyes, holding up his hands to interject. “Don’t deny it,” he says, his voice rough and angry now. “I...” he bites his lip, and to Marco’s surprise, he realizes Jean has tears in his eyes. “I wish I could take it back, and I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, wringing his hands together, long deft fingers lacing anxiously as he repeats the declaration. “I’m sorry.”

Suddenly, the sound of a shopping cart clanging along the uneven pedestrian footpath in the park makes both of them straighten abruptly, but then an older woman comes into view who looks relatively harmless.

She has a big bucket of semi-wilting roses, and she gives them a toothy smile.

“You’ve been together for years,” she says without preamble, pointing at Jean first, and then at Marco.

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Jean grunts, rolling his eyes and pulling out his wallet. “Save me the bullshit story, and... how much are they?”

The woman actually looks nonplussed, and Marco suddenly feels bad for her.

“A dollar each,” she says, giving Jean a distasteful look.

“I’ll take all of them.”

Both Jean and the flower seller turn abruptly to stare at Marco at the same time, and he just gives them a serious, sincere raise of his eyebrows, as if inviting them to challenge his statement.

“How many are there? Thirty?” He guesses, pulling out two twenty dollar bills. “Here—keep the change.” He holds out the money to the flower vendor, and she just shrugs.

What Marco is going to do with thirty roses, he’s unsure, but there’s just something about being the only two people this woman runs across who don’t buy a flower on Valentine’s Day that seems like bad luck.

It just bothers him, because he also wants to buy one for Jean.

And he knows that Jean would laugh and poke fun at him and roll his eyes at Marco’s cheesy antics; but then the rose would end up on the kitchen window sill in a vase filled with water, tended to carefully for the duration of its short life.

Because, that’s Jean: an asshole who cares far too much about other people to really pull off the act.

Thankfully, the flower seller has a large amount of paper they wrap the giant flower bundle in, and Marco takes them in his arms.

Jean is just staring at him now, the former sadness gone for the moment.

“Why the hell did you just buy thirty roses?” he asks, his mouth hanging open slightly.

Marco bites his lip, taking a deep breath and ignoring the question. “Why did you apologize so many times?” he asks quietly. “Did you really think you fucked up that bad?”

“By telling you that... I...” Jean says, his voice pained again, and almost choked now. “It was stupid.”

Marco doesn’t want to say it. He tries so hard not to let the words out, to focus on something uncomfortable to distract himself: the way the freezing bench has made the back of his legs numb, how the roses and paper are annoyingly scratchy, that he can’t feel his face.

But all he can see is Jean, with his hideous neon green scarf, looking scared and lost.

The words come out anyway.

“I never said no.”

Jean’s eyes widen immediately, and he stiffens, looking taken aback. He opens his mouth, and no sound comes out. 

“I never said,” Marco continues, trying desperately to fight back tears, “that I didn’t want to buy you roses, or that I didn’t want to know how you feel.” He shakes his head, dropping his face to rub his nose against the roses, the petals reassuringly soft.

“I never said I didn’t want you,” he whispers.

He doesn’t know what to expect—maybe another confession, for Jean to just get up and pretend this conversation never happened, for him to just walk away even?

But Jean taking the roses out of his arms, lying them gently on the bench, and then pulling him into a tight hug, takes Marco completely by surprise.

“What’s wrong?” Jean asks. It’s such a simple question, and Marco realizes he’s been caught. Jean knows that it’s not simple rejection now; that it’s something else.

A tear manages to escape and track down Marco’s cheek, and he knows Jean can feel it against his neck where Marco’s pressed his face. That assumption is confirmed when Jean’s hand rises to rub his back slowly—a tender, comforting touch that no one from the outside would ever think Jean capable of.

“We don’t have the same needs,” Marco finally says through a shuddery sigh.

“How do you know?” Jean immediately questions, pulling back to look at Marco intently.

Marco bites his lip; the weight of Jean’s hands on his shoulders where they’re still sitting feels nice. 

“I just know,” Marco retorts, becoming slowly aware of the fact he sounds like a petulant child.

“No, you don’t,” Jean retorts simply, leveling Marco with that intense gaze.

Marco suddenly feels a mighty urge to shock Jean out of his confidence, to show him the truth, to shove it in his face and be sorry for something he actually should be—for offering Marco the possibility that maybe Jean really could fit into _Marco’s needs_ , that Jean could still love him the way that they both want. That Marco could buy thirty wilted roses and have someone to give them to, have someone to call him cheesy and make sure they stay alive.

Marco wants to drive that nail home, though, because it hurts too much.

“I’m in love with you,” he says simply, pulling away so that Jean’s hands drop, “but I don’t want to have sex with you.” 

Then, he waits.

The confusion, he’s predicting, and he doesn’t even wait for Jean to try and formulate the question.

“I’m... what you might call ‘asexual,’” he finally says, taking a deep breath. “Sounds weird, huh?” He gives a weak little smile and a shrug. “Or, as they say these days, ‘ace.’”

Jean blinks, staring at Marco, and then his head cocks to the side; there are so many emotions flashing behind his eyes, it’s dizzying to watch.

“I need a fucking cigarette,” he finally concludes, his eyes still wide.

Marco shouldn’t feel the bile rise up the way it does, and he shouldn’t be surprised; but that doesn’t stop the feeling from appearing.

“You quit a year ago,” Marco says softly, rising abruptly and gathering the roses. “I have to go home. Don’t call me for a few days, okay?” He heaves a shuddery sigh. “I just need some time to myself.”

Jean rises, too, and Marco assumes it’s to say an awkward goodbye; but instead, the roses get crushed between them as he wraps his arms around Marco tightly again.

“I need a cigarette because you just told me you love me,” he says softly.

Marco can tell he wants to say more, but he stays quiet for the time being.

“You’re not listening,” Marco croaks. He’s not going to cry; he is _not going to cry._

“I’m listening fine,” Jean replies immediately, not letting go. “You just don’t want to admit that I can.”

Marco stops at that; his breath catches, and he’s taken off guard. And then, in typical Jean fashion, he ups the ante—probably without even planning to.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he whispers, nuzzling Marco’s ear affectionately. “No, I don’t mean with a fucking diamond ring down on one knee. I just want to be with you.” He pulls away finally, and Marco can feel the blush burning his cheeks, not even knowing what to think. Jean cups Marco’s face, his eyebrows arched up anxiously and his eyes bright. “I want to be with you, no matter what.” 

“Jean...” Marco says softly, not knowing what to say.

They just stare at the each other for a bit. The wind is still cold, the flowers are still wilting, and it’s still Valentine’s Day.

But nothing is the same.

“You’re...” Jean finally breaks the silence. “You’re not into sex? So, you’re... not into butt stuff?” 

He looks so earnest and curious, that Marco finally bursts out laughing. He hugs Jean tight again, shaking his head; but after a minute, he answers the question.

“No,” he replies quietly, not having the courage to look at Jean. “Any kind of sex—orgasms, erotic stuff, sexy stuff. None of it.”

“Do you like kissing?” The question is so innocent, Marco doesn’t even know how to answer at first.

“Um,” he says, pulling away, “well, yeah.”

“Kissing is okay?” Jean repeats, studying Marco carefully. “What else is okay?”

“Well,” Marco starts cautiously, “um... it’s sort of like... I like holding hands and kissing, but... I don’t get turned on by it?” Surprisingly, this seems to make sense to Jean.

He smiles a little, finally looking at ease, and then suddenly adorably shy.

“Will you kiss me?” he asks suddenly, studying Marco hesitantly.

No one’s ever actually asked to _be_ kissed; it’s actually a welcome turn of events.

“Yeah,” Marco nods, smiling a little.

Jean’s lips are soft as Marco kisses him for the first time; as Marco’s expecting, Jean immediately pulls him close so that they’re flush against each other. But then, to his surprise, Jean just lets the kiss happen and waits.

When they break away, he’s panting, and his cheeks are flushed. It could be the cold, but Marco has enough ego to assume it’s not.

“You’re a really good kisser,” he blurts out, his eyes wide. 

Marco smiles at him a little, and he’s about to say something bittersweet about how all Jean will be getting is a kiss here and there; but Jean beats him to the punch, grasping Marco’s hand. He guides Marco’s hand up to his mouth, and then he kisses the palm.

“I’ll take whatever you have to give,” Jean says quietly, lacing his fingers with Marco. “I want _you._ ”

“I want you, too,” Marco replies, his throat slightly froggy. “I want to give you... thirty shopping cart roses on this dumb day every year.”

Jean gives him a silly little smile that makes Marco’s heart clench and sends a wave of such intense emotion crashing through him, he feels like he’s going to suffocate. Sometimes, words aren’t enough. 

“She was right, you know,” Jean remarks. “That woman? She said we’ve been together for years.”

“Yeah,” Marco says softly. “So, you want to...”

“I want to walk with you,” Jean interrupts, bending to retrieve the impressive bundle of roses and holding out his free hand, “and then, I want to go home and put these in water. I want you to come home with me.”

“You are home to me, Jean,” Marco says softly, not meeting Jean’s eyes as he accepts the offered hand and stands up.

Jean leans forward to grip his hand tightly and press a soft kiss against his jaw. “We’ll figure it out.” He shrugs a little, hesitating, but then finishes his thought. “Um, to be honest, I like sex... but I’ve sort of always liked... kissing more.”

Marco pulls back slightly with wide eyes, and Jean offers him a sheepish smile.

“Seriously?” Marco asks in disbelief.

Jean just shrugs a little and raises his eyebrow. “It’s nice,” he says simply. 

Marco sighs softly, and nods. “Can we just skip the bar and... go home?”

Jean smiles at him finally, taking a moment to smell one of the roses. “Have to get these in some water, right?”

The side of Marco’s mouth curls up, and suddenly, everything seems like it’s going to be okay.

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

Jean smiles. “Sure. Can I put my arm around you?” The way he asks is so earnest, that Marco starts to feel a little hope curl in the pit of his stomach; it’s an unfamiliar, but nice feeling.

Marco nods. “I’d like that,” he replies softly.

Later that evening, when Marco’s ensconced blissfully in Jean’s overstuffed couch and in the circle of Jean’s arm as those long, deft fingers stroke through his hair idly, he knows he doesn’t need to worry about the roses dying—all thirty of them, placed in different containers around Jean’s kitchen.

Jean is good at taking care of things that way.

“Good night,” is the last thing Marco hears before drifting off to sleep, a chaste kiss pressed against his hair.

And he realizes Jean was right: they’ve been together for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm well aware that this is an "ideal" situation and response. But depending on the arrangement, the context, and the characters involved, it could certainly happen this way. I think Jean is such a complex creature of volatile emotions, he'd be willing to go off the beaten track to try something new if it meant following his instincts, desires, and emotions. Maybe it won't work, but hey, it's a freakin' Valentine's Day one shot that's supposed to be fluffy.
> 
> Also important: I hope it came through that Marco's not ashamed or self-loathing over how he identifies. He's just frustrated since he's in love with someone who has needs he thinks aren't compatible with his own.
> 
> I just wanted to put that out there. :D
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! <3


End file.
